


a new address on the same old loneliness

by Vulpix



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Hiatus, M/M, Sorta Peterick sorta not, Suicide Referenced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 01:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3999964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulpix/pseuds/Vulpix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People wanted lyrics that weren't his and a guitarist with a lisp and a drummer covered in tattoos. Not just him. He had turned from someone on top of the world into a man walking a tightrope without Pete there to catch him.</p><p>(or lonely drinking turning into a blog post turning into Pete Wentz standing at your doorstep)</p>
            </blockquote>





	a new address on the same old loneliness

**Author's Note:**

> woo. haven't written fanfiction in a long time. so here's what 2 am thought up after rereading Patrick's blog post from way back when, and what's been sitting on my hard drive for a few weeks, collecting dust.

He didn't know when exactly it happened, he didn't know the moment the switch in his brain flipped. What he did know was that there weren't any rhythms pulsing through his fingers when he'd pour milk into his cereal. He noticed the fact he wanted to sit still and be quiet when his favorite song shuffled on, not sing along. Suddenly the melodies disappeared from his head, as easy as they came.

Now this is what depression felt like.

Depression was the fact he spent free time curled up in his bunk or hotel room, eyeing his MacBook with no will to work. Why should he? It wasn't like anyone wanted him solo. People wanted lyrics that weren't his and a guitarist with a lisp and a drummer covered in tattoos. Not just him. He had turned from someone on top of the world into a man walking a tightrope without Pete there to catch him.

He had seen Pete go through it before. When he was angry or sad he'd scribble in notebooks or be typing away at his laptop. But depression- true, painful depression- that tended to leave him lying in his bunk, or at home, or in someone else's bed with no other motivation but self-loathing. The thought of Pete hurt. The thought of Pete feeling like this hurt more.

But Patrick had a tour to do, and seeing Brendon and Spencer daily was nice. A friendly reminder of time past. It was different, though. He felt like he was watching his life as a third party, just going through the motions. It was like every other tour he had been on in the past ten years, only slight differences that drove him mad.

He was still spending days asleep and nights on stage, but sometimes he spend the nights in someone else's bed, usually drunk. Brendon was still crazy in the best ways, but there wasn't a dark haired, olive skinned accomplice to his tour antics. Patrick sang still, it just wasn't backed by guitars chugging with distortion and a heavy beat.

He'd have good weeks. He'd still smile and pour his all into his performances, but every time he heard someone else mock him, bring up his weight or Fall Out Boy or his old friends, he'd have to take a breath and act like everything was okay. He acted like he wasn't falling into the same hole he had tried to keep Pete out of for years. They took a break so they could get their shit together. Patrick nearly laughed. Clearly that wasn't working.

He thanked every god that existed when he finally got some free time. No more awkward interviews or questionable attitudes getting shoved down his throat. But that brought him to days spent in bed or the gentle arms of Jim Bean or Jack Daniels.

The thing about depression and alcohol is that it only makes shit worse. His thoughts became plagued with words he had read or heard with his own ears. He poured his all into an album that people actively hated. Hated enough to harass him. Fall Out Boy had been the pinnacle. They were meant to be a one hit wonder with a few more hits on the side. He had over stayed his welcome, and it was time to just step away.

He wrote all of it out, a post to his blog filled with his sadness and dread, figuring it was a good way to vent and get out at least some of the toxic waste in his head. He figured it would be ignored.

He turned his phone off, and hid in his bedroom for the next two days, completely and utterly drained. On the morning of the third, he heard his door getting knocked on. He ignored it at first, but it grew in loudness, until he felt like they were just punching the door.

Who the hell was bothering him at the crack of dawn? He made sure that it was actually someone knocking, and not just a bad dream. Maybe they had the wrong address.

He dragged himself out of the comfort of his sheets, answering the door.

Pete was familiarity that he nearly hated. It stung like a fresh wound, but was deep and infected like an old one. It made his head spin and his heart squeeze in ways proving his veins were filled with nostalgia. Patrick's brows raised, gazing at him surprised. He assumed he looked funny, in Spiderman pajamas with all his bleached hair pushed to one side from sleeping. Or, rather, lying in bed, tossing and turning trying to figure out what a guy nearly bankrupt in his latter twenties should do. It wasn’t like he could get a job at Starbucks.

"Hi. Let me in." Pete's voice was exceedingly careful, eyes trying to decipher something Patrick didn't understand. Keeping a skeptical expression on his face, he stepped away from the door, letting Pete shut it behind him.

He hadn't changed that much, but there were new lines on his face that showed worry, and stress, and every single god damn thing he had gone though. Of course they had kept in touch, but that's just it. They “kept in touch”. An occasional drink if their tours landed in the same city, which wasn't all too often. Or phone calls where they repeated the same script once every six to eight months. They just replaced the big things, like new albums and calling a wife an ex, or when Pete finally got a haircut.

Patrick rubbed his eyes, finally sort of realizing how weird it was for Pete to be here at 5 AM- for Pete to be here at all- and that this wasn't just a good friend stopping by. “Um,” he stumbled over his words, “It's good to see you I think.”

“Are you okay?” The response was immediate, keeping wide, worried eyes on him.

Of course, Patrick wasn't okay. He was feeling quite useless, just scoping new producing chances, or maybe a little acting. He was washed up. Yesterday's news. They quit at their peak, he just wasn't ready to ride the spiral down into the fucking ground.

He shrugged. “Why wouldn't I be okay?” He was about to continue, but he was cut off.

“Uh, I don't know, maybe you wrote a fucking painfully depressing blog post and then I couldn't get in touch with you for the past two days? Straight to voice mail. Do you know how fucking worried I am? … and other people?” It was evident that other people were an afterthought. That didn't stop realization from flooding across Patrick's face.

“I, I- no, I'm alright, I've just... it's just been rough. I mean... you evidently read the post. That tells you a lot.” Patrick started to look down, fiddling with the pockets in his pajamas. If he smoked, he'd probably have a cigarette between his lips, and part of him wondered if he could have convinced Pete that he had truly been up drinking at this hour in order to grab some liquid confidence.

“Rough's an understatement, man.” He was edging on hysterical, words falling out of his mouth rapidly, “I-I, y'know, I figured you wouldn't want to answer me on the first few rings, I'm the jerk off who dragged your barely legal ass out on Take This To Your Grave, and, and, shit, I schmoozed the _hell_ out of the emo thing, but then you didn't pick up and I called a few of our mutual friends and Joe and Andy and they said they couldn't reach you and I-” He exhaled slowly, and Patrick felt like complete and utter shit. And here he thought no one gave a crap about him.

Patrick placed a hand on his shoulder, gently. His thumb rubbed circles into it, just wanting the tension in his muscles to loosen, and for his own brain to catch up a little bit. Even though it had been a few years, he knew Pete was quite physical, and the small touch would bring him from a 10 to a 2 almost instantly. He must not have changed much, because Pete exhaled slowly, his shoulders finally loosening up. He motioned for his best friend (or was it ex best friend?) to follow him, settling them both on his couch, his head falling into his hands. “Pete, it's... its fucking complicated.”

He made a sound that resembled both a groan and a grunt, shaking his head. “I just came to your house in the middle of the night, I think it must be a little important. Don't pull that on me.”

Patrick bit his tongue, keeping himself from pointing out that it was technically the morning, and in the little land of LA people were starting their days when Pete hadn't even thought about ending his yet. The bags under his eyes seemed to take up a semi-permanent residence. Especially when he was as stressed as he seemed.

The dark haired man kept speaking, his words chosen more carefully than he had ever seen Pete speak. “Patrick... I was preparing myself to... walk in here and see some... things. Andy wanted to come over today, but I beat him to it. He said he didn't want me to see it if.. if you had... decided to leave us.”

Patrick's eyes grew. “N-no! Pete, it- _fuck,_ I wouldn't kill my-... _No_ , no.”

They exchanged a long glance, his old best friend analyzing his every movement for a few seconds that felt like hours, before simply pulling him into a tight hug, shaking his head into his shoulder. Patrick clung to him, and it was as if neither of them could keep existing without each other for the moment.

“You scared me. You aren't a fucking has-been.” Pete grumbled into his shirt, sounding emotionally exhausted. This was all like a blast of cold air. It wasn't like Pete never hung all over him in the past. He was known for it. It has just been too long. Patrick's arms curled more securely around him, just sighing softly, sadly.

“I'm sorry. It's been... a year, to say the least.” He laughed, harshly, bitterly. “It's kind of hard to go from the top of the world one year to getting booed. Folie was bad but... this is even worse. It's made me hate my work. Who would want to tour an album hated this much?”

Pete nudged him, looking up from his shirt. “I loved it.” They met eyes, and they both mirrored ludicrous grins. It was a weird reaction, but they both knew where it came from- that's why they were best friends after all. Anyone else would stare in confusion at the stupid smile, but they were on the same wavelength. It was good to be here again.

You don't realize how much you missed something until they're back in your arms.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on tumblr, @ asoulpunk


End file.
